


something i can't define

by riverbed



Series: somethings [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, M/M, Rough Sex, Safer Sex, Texting, bossiness, this is nasty as fuck i'm sorry but i'm also not, thomas + alex kiss & make up basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 20:56:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6723067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbed/pseuds/riverbed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>hamilton is stubborn and prideful and knows what he wants, pushes and pushes until it's given to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	something i can't define

**Author's Note:**

> hhheeey.
> 
> hamilton's a bossy, desperate little power bottom; it's the only way this ship works for me.
> 
> also, wow, when i first posted this, some of my formatting really fucked up the text conversation and deleted half of it? yikes. give it another go. sorry.

Thomas is a patient man. His quiet dedication to planning is what has made him slowly successful. He understands the value of a well-formulated argument, of letting others speak at length so he can study the weaknesses in their point and break them down efficiently.

Alexander Hamilton, he thinks, represents the impending end of his patience. His speeches are rambling, passionate things that Thomas often can’t make heads or tails of, can’t keep up with. He talks out of turn, bites his nails, and never sits still. He’s wildly immature, and Thomas will never tell the President, but he disagrees with his decision to appoint him to the Cabinet.

The fact that he has to see Hamilton in person, he assumes, is retribution for all his past sins. Perhaps if he endures impressively enough, he still has a chance at Heaven.

“Jefferson!” Hamilton greets him brightly, like always. He grabs Jefferson’s hand as if they are old friends, and Thomas winces at the force with which he shakes it.

“Hamilton,” he drawls, “I saw you only yesterday.” There’s no humor in it, only annoyance. Hamilton doesn’t notice. He bounces down the hall ahead of him toward the President’s office, and as they enter Jefferson is shocked to notice Hamilton pluck one of those little lollipops, a Dum-Dum, from Washington’s desk. He unwraps it and sticks it in his mouth, shoves his hands in his pockets and sucks. Jefferson feels the heat rise on his cheeks and has to look away.

Washington doesn’t seem to mind - he talks at length about his frustrations with current media perception, asks them both for updates on their departments’ work. The Treasury has been researching the viability of plastic money for months. Hamilton is staunchly for it - the anti-counterfeit features, he says, are so beneficial that the U.S. can hardly afford _not_ to update its bills. Washington nods sagely as he always does while he listens, and then Jefferson talks about his ongoing considerations for appointees to attend an international conference coming up in Norway, how he’s been wondering if he should just make the trip himself. Hamilton sits in the chair next to him, every once in a while making a popping noise as he sucks on his candy. Thomas tries not to let his eyes drift to the side, wary of what might be read from them.

Because, sure, he’s exasperated with Hamilton 100% of the time. Oftentimes thoughts that pop up aimed at him are downright _mean,_ highly specific insults lined up for miles in case the need strikes. The young Secretary is not under the illusion that Jefferson cares for him; he only knows that they are forced, oftentimes, to collaborate, and he is at least professional enough, or smug enough, to smile and pretend. But the ill will, the insults, those are nothing compared to the _other_ aspects of his feelings toward Hamilton. There’s total darkness there, depravity, complete impropriety. Hamilton is the antithesis to Jefferson - small and slight where Jefferson is tall, almost gangly, and he’s likely not in perfect shape, what with his lolly fixation and the way he inhales indiscriminately at barbecues. Jefferson values working out, does so more to burn off excess frustration than calories, but it has brought him a body that’s sharp and strong, and he thinks about how easily he could pin Hamilton down more than he’s entirely comfortable with. Jefferson has more than once opted for a cold shower over a gym trip in the wake of debating a jumping-bean Hamilton, though he knows those cold showers do nothing - after them he still has to take his cock in hand and think of Hamilton’s saucer-wide eyes to feel relaxed. He spends on himself like a teenager and curses his inability to control himself. The pattern is the same, always.

Washington dismisses them for the weekend when they’re done chatting, coming around the desk to see them off. Alexander hangs back to add a couple quick things, but he catches up with Thomas on the White House lawn. The pen in his shirt pocket is leaking, a trail of black on the pink fabric. “Well, back to work, huh?” Hamilton says good-naturedly, pulling on his sportcoat to hide the stain though the humidity is dreadful.

“Uh, I dunno if you just missed this part, but Washington said we could go home,” Jefferson says, tossing his briefcase in the trunk of his LS. 

Hamilton scoffs theatrically, pursed lips blowing back hair that’s come loose from his ponytail. “I got way too much work to do. You don’t?”

He looks Hamilton up and down, pausing at his driver’s side door. He gives him a simpering smile. “Go home, Hamilton. We all need rest.”

Hamilton’s eyes narrow as if he’s about to challenge such a notion, but he shrugs, turns east and stalks off. Toward the Treasury building. Jefferson sighs and locks his door, but he sits in the parking lot with his hands on the wheel for a good while before he thinks to start the car.

*

Hamilton is at _his_ bar. 

Thomas can’t believe he’s reacting like this, that his face burns hot, that he feels like running and hiding just because his colleague is at the restaurant he likes to spend Saturday nights at. There’s no pretending Hamilton won’t notice him immediately, and he does - his face lights up when he sees him from the host’s stand, and he waves, nudging his wife. It’s like he forgets the bad blood between them if they’re not actively engaging in it.

He greets them cordially, kisses Eliza’s hand, because she is a sweet lady from a good family. Popular opinion is that she’s kind of empty-headed for staying with Alexander after the news whirlwind that was his affair with the poor Reynolds girl, but Jefferson doubts it - she is witty, with a sharp, coy smile, and he has always suspected it’s a calculated decision. Perhaps she just realizes that shit happens and gets over it. It’s stronger than most could be, faced with such embarrassment.

Eliza eventually grows bored of Alexander trying to small-talk issues she doesn’t care about, clearly antsy about what time they have to be on this date before they have to get home to their sitter, and she tugs him by the sleeve to their table. Alexander shoots Jefferson an apologetic look, but Thomas couldn’t be more grateful. He goes back to his whiskey, and occasionally he watches them through the mirror behind the bar. But he mostly focuses on his whiskey.

*

He wakes up the next morning with a pounding headache. He’s got to stop going places where the bartender gives him his drinks on the house.

Thomas throws the covers back in defiance and fumbles near-blind around the bathroom for a few minutes, toothbrush, mouthwash, glass of water. Finger-combs his hair out and ties it back away from his face, too lazy to do much else with it. He strips off his pajama pants and climbs back into bed nude, relishing the feeling of his expensive comforter on his skin. He’s just about cozy enough to fall back asleep when his phone chimes from the bedside table, a soft, agreeable noise, _Hey man, check me if you want, but I won’t impose._

He grumbles, reaches out to wrap his hand around his phone. He adjusts his eyes to the lockscreen and is surprised to see Alexander Hamilton’s contact - he briefly panics that it’s Monday and he’d been on a bender. But it’s certainly Sunday morning, and he doesn’t have previews on, so he swipes the notification and enters his passcode.

(9:27a) Good morning.

Thomas squints at it. He looks at the last message Hamilton sent him - months ago, entirely work-related. Never in their acquaintance has he sent or received a purely salutation text to or from Hamilton.

(9:30a) what do you need?

Three dots pop up immediately. Thomas rolls his eyes, expecting a novel.

(9:30a) Just checking on you. You got pretty drunk last night, and the bartender called you a cab. I wanted to make sure you’re safe  
(9:31a) Actually, Eliza wanted to make sure you’re safe. To be clear I do hope you’re safe, I just didn’t think of it, because I’m an idiot

Hamilton texts like he talks, like a stream of consciousness, even when the conversation is purely friendly. Thomas lets half a grin spread across his face before he catches himself and works it into a scowl.

(9:32a) im fine, hamilton. tell your wife thank you  
(9:32a) and that she looked lovely last night. blue silk. nice.

(9:35a) She says thank you. I say: don’t leer at my wife  
(9:35a) To be fair, my eyes were wandering too.

He punctuates it. Thomas adjusts, shuffles his shoulders against the pillow.

(9:36a) Sorry.  
(9:36a) Would it surprise you that I’m out of practice?  
(9:37a) Let me come over and you can try to teach me again.

Suddenly Thomas can’t cough enough to air out his lungs. He hacks, covering his mouth with his arm, and his throat is rough and sore when he’s finally done.

(9:39a) I’m kind of incorrigible, though. You have to be really patient with me.

(9:40a) aren’t I always  
(9:40a) what is this? are you high?

It is, honestly, the only thing he can think to ask.

(9:41a) No but I’ve been wanting this for a long time and I’m a no time like the present kind of guy  
(9:41a) As you know.  
(9:42a) With my wife’s approval, that is

(9:42a) i am so confused

(9:42a) I understand  
(9:45a) I’m gonna come over, ok? We’ll talk about it. No pressure or anything.  
(9:46a) I’m just gonna… I’m coming over.

Thomas groans. He’s far too hungover to deal with even the texts by themselves and now Hamilton’s invited himself to his home. He does drive on the weekends, so it likely won’t be long till he shows up, if he’s serious. Thomas reluctantly gets back out of bed, pulls his pajama pants back on. He briefly considers whether he should dress further, but decides that if Hamilton’s already made up his mind, he might as well make it easy for him. He shuffles to the kitchen to put some eggs and sausage on, and he mixes two mimosas with cheap champagne. He makes a couple omelettes, throws peppers and green beans and a couple other veggies into the eggs and folds them over themselves with a spatula. He plates the omelettes and sausage with wheat toast, sets a glass of water next to each on the counter bar. His normal routine, but now for two.

This is weird.

*

Alexander buzzes long and insistent, and he lets him in without bothering to greet him through the talk box. He opens the door and leans on the frame; the hallway is quiet, everyone in his building either at church or still asleep. The stairwell door opens, and Alexander emerges, stops short when he sees Thomas. He takes the time to eye Alexander indulgently; he’s wearing jeans and a v-neck sweater, and Thomas realizes how little he sees him without his beat-up old messenger bag.

He approaches Jefferson’s apartment slowly, kind of hesitantly. Like he’s afraid he might lash out and snap his neck. Thomas sighs and steps back to let him pass, watching Alexander as he studies the apartment. He can tell Hamilton’s trying to keep his eyes on things other than Thomas’ chest, and he lets the ego boost settle him; he squares his shoulders and affects total confidence so the next time Hamilton looks at him it will be at his most impressive.

Hamilton turns once, studies the wall art and the leather sofa and matching recliner. “Nice place,” he tells him simply. He sniffs at the air, like a dog. “You make breakfast?”

Thomas nods. He gestures to the kitchen, and Hamilton’s face lights up. “God. Homemade breakfast and we haven’t even slept together yet.” He looks up at Jefferson, who stands across the bar from him, plate in hand, as Alexander sits. “You’re so sweet.”

“Yeah,” Jefferson says, swirling his mimosa. “About that.”

“Oh! Yeah. Honestly, I’m surprised you haven’t propositioned me before.” Alexander takes a big, unsexy bite of omelette. Jefferson cuts his sausage link up into very tiny pieces. Through his mouthful, Alexander says, “I tried to make it obvious that I was down, but you seemed so aloof. You still do.”

“You’re married,” Thomas says in his own defense. “One thing you’ll note, Hamilton, is that I’m one of the few people on the Hill who has yet to be outed on TMZ.” He softens the blow with a sympathetic look, and Alexander absorbs it. “And anyway, I don’t know what kind of freaky shit you and your wife get up to. I’m not going to make the assumption that she’d be cool with it and disrespect her.”

Hamilton clears his plate, drinks all his water. He goes for the mimosa but only takes little sips, watching Thomas eat slowly. “She’s cool. She saw the way I looked at you all night last night, and said I should just give up the gun and ask you myself.”

Thomas nods, trying to process it. They sit in comfortable silence for a while, Alexander getting through about half of his drink.

Thomas doesn’t touch his. He already feels too lightheaded, too spinny.

*

Alexander kisses like he talks, reckless and endless. He draws it out, running his palms in warm circles on Thomas’ chest. Thomas is sinking into the couch cushion, Alexander straddling his lap and pressing him into it. He’s so small but so dense, an almost sleepy, solid weight on him. Hamilton’s kisses aren’t rushed, but they’re insistent, and when Thomas pulls away for breath he’ll drop to his neck and chest, nipping and sucking to mark him up. Thomas shivers under the attention, but he’s starting to worry that he’ll stick to the couch, so he pushes Hamilton away, gives them a foot or so of breathing room.

“Bed,” he says, as Hamilton tilts his head and pouts.

Then the younger man’s face spreads into a grin. “You want me to move? Make me,” he challenges, settling his weight more heavily against Thomas, leaning back in to go back to biting at his neck. Thomas rolls his eyes. Okay, he decides. He will.

He wraps his arms around Hamilton and gets his hands clasped under his rear, lifting him up with him as he stands in one fluid motion. He hoists him to adjust so his hands slide under his thighs when he gets to his full height, and Hamilton yelps at the jolt, putting his arms around Jefferson’s neck and pulling back to look at him. He kisses him again, just about knocks the wind out of Thomas’ lungs, and it’s a struggle to get them down the hall to the bedroom, with Hamilton resolutely locked to his lips the entire time. He tosses Hamilton on the bed roughly, and Hamilton pulls his sweater and undershirt off, pops the button on his jeans. He stretches out on the bed, and Jefferson eyes him hungrily. He drops his pajama pants and Hamilton’s eyes go wide, staring at his half-hard cock as he climbs onto the bed, kneeling over Hamilton to cover him in kisses of his own. He has to take some power back, has to control the situation.

Hamilton melts under him as he sucks a bruise into his chest. “Pretty,” Jefferson murmurs against him, nipping at his throat. Hamilton shudders beneath him, and he flicks one of his nipples to get him doing that again.

Hamilton pushes at him, and, concerned, Jefferson sits up, but all Hamilton does is wrap his hand around his cock and squeeze curiously, and Thomas hisses. “Fuck,” Alexander says. “Fuck. You gonna put all of this in me?”

All the blood rushes from Thomas’ head. Hamilton looks so nonchalant, sitting there on his bed with his hair loose and his eyes bright, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to be touching him like this, as if he was born to be right here. His jeans are open, and Thomas can see the stirring interest in his boxer briefs, rising to tent the fabric. He reaches out to run the heel of his hand over Hamilton’s groin in reciprocation, and Hamilton tips his head back and parts his lips. He’s working his hand on him expertly, tugging to get him fully hard. “Christ,” he says, batting Thomas’ hand away to focus. “Jesus, that’s huge. Fuck.”

He says it like it’s just for his own benefit, like hearing it out loud will help him process it, but Thomas lets the compliment wash over him anyway, lets himself jump in Alex’s hand. His fingers are light and dextrous - Thomas recalls a girlfriend who played piano - and he stares continually at Jefferson’s dick, as if in awe. “Fucking… you gonna get me ready for this or not?” He looks up at Thomas, eyes hard. Thomas takes the hint, pushes him over to his front. Hamilton parts his thighs, and Thomas licks him open as he leans over the bed, patting for the little trunk that has the toys and shit in it. All he wants is the lube, but Alexander hears the box being opened and snaps his head toward it, scrutinizing. “Oh, fuck,” he says, and presses his cheek back to the bed, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. “You’re kinky.”

“We don’t have to… just wanted to…” Thomas gestures with the little bottle as explanation, and it distracts Hamilton enough for him to forget about the toys and rock his hips against the bedspread. “Yes,” he says, “ _yes_ yes yes.” He finishes preparing him slowly, one then two of his long fingers, and then eventually three, as Hamilton sucks at own knuckles but doesn’t quite manage to keep himself quiet around them.

Jefferson pulls Alex back to the foot of the bed and stands him up, presses their bodies together for a minute, and after he’s kissed him Alexander pulls back and looks at him quizzically. “Not that I don’t appreciate it,” he says, a little breathless, “but you can kiss me after you fuck me. Or, hell, while you fuck me. As long as you’re fucking me.” Thomas shakes his head and turns him around, guides him to bend over the foot of the bed - and, fuck, he’s _curvy,_ bouncy ass and nice hips that taper up to his small waist. He plays with the bit of extra flesh on his hip for a minute, pinching the fat hard, and Alexander mewls and tries to press back against Jefferson’s body. Jefferson swats him on the ass, more as a reflex than anything else, and Hamilton gasps and rocks back.

“Come on, Thomas, you got me all worked up, I’m so ready for you, look at this,” Hamilton babbles, and Thomas reels at the sound of his given name even as he groans watching Hamilton wiggle his little ass back and forth. He leans over him, feeling how small he is against him, how slim his hips are as he grinds. He pulls Alexander back by the hair and kisses him, deep and filthy, flicking his tongue past his lips and wrapping it around Hamilton’s. Alex mewls in surprise into it when Thomas’ cock catches on the cleft of his ass, presses up against his puckered, slippery hole as they rut together. Thomas' breath hitches, and he grabs Hamilton’s hips, rubs against him again and again as if the friction could ever really be enough.

Hamilton reaches back and dances his fingers against the side of Jefferson’s hip. He’s trying so hard to tempt him in, and it takes a massive feat of effort for Thomas to ask Hamilton to hand him a condom from the table. Hamilton shoots him a nasty look but crawls up the bed, and Jefferson watches, rapt, as he does. He stands his ground, though, and Hamilton comes back the same way, knee-walking backward with a handful of little packets, having been too lazy to do much more but swoop his hand into the drawer and pull out what he found.

He gets back into place on his own, plants his feet under him and his hands on the bed in front. His shoulders are square - his posture is _proud,_ Jefferson realizes. Ever-expectant and vying, Hamilton. Jefferson wants to give him a fucking challenge to live up to.

He rolls the condom on over some lube and strokes himself a couple times, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. Hamilton shoves himself back against him, impatient. Arches his back and shuffles his legs apart a little further. Jefferson growls and knocks into him, drives him down to his elbows on the mattress. Hamilton goes with a grunt.

“Oh, yeah,” he says under his breath as he lands, like it’s a revelation. He shifts his hips again, broadening his stance. Jefferson looks down the curve of Hamilton’s spine to where his hair fans out and moans at the angle. He lets himself feel how his ass squishes as he presses up against him again, and this time he slips in, slowly inching his way.

Hamilton’s lips are pursed and his eyes closed as he concentrates on taking it. He breathes slowly through his teeth and Jefferson runs his hand back and forth across the small of his back as a soothe. He relaxes eventually, and Jefferson can feel it before he starts talking but he starts talking anyway.

Granted, the words are riding on moans and gasps, but bless his heart, he’s trying. “Jesus Christ,” he ekes out through gritted teeth, “fuckfuckfuck. You like that? Take that ass, come on, Jefferson, you fucking think you’re hot shit, show me what you’re made of.”

Jefferson starts driving home in earnest, holds Hamilton’s hips hard and grinds into him on the instroke. Hamilton makes this addictive little noise when he does that, a high-pitched mewl, and Jefferson is starting to realize he’s prone to thrashing around if he doesn’t hold him perfectly in place. He slows down and stops for a second, lets Alexander breathe - there is, surprisingly, no commentary as he pads across to the dresser and retrieves one of his leather belts. He snaps it and Alexander jolts at the noise, but he doesn’t look - he keeps his eyes shut, and he moans. _All right,_ Jefferson notes. _He is game._ He files it away for later, but his intentions are more innocent for now. He loops the belt around Alexander’s hips and yanks him back to him by a strong grip on both ends, his hips slapping loudly against his ass.

“There,” he tells him, tossing his hair back and bending down to press his lips to Alexander’s shoulder blade. “Now you’ll stay where I want you.”

Alexander moans and arches back to him, presses back against him with vigor. He lets his body go absolutely slack, lets Jefferson pull back and rail him with renewed force. “God, that’s good, that’s so fucking good,” he whispers, sort of to himself, his eyes shut tight. His cheek is pressed to the bed but Jefferson sees the flush on the one that’s turned up, scarlet red on his pretty light-brown skin. Drool leaks from his little mouth, and Jefferson suddenly wishes he’d suck his cock, but the tight heat of his ass is too good to switch positions now, and he doesn’t think Alexander would be happy about it, either. The way he’s flopping onto the bed when Thomas pulls out, his body lax and pliant, is a big part of what’s getting Thomas close. He drops the belt and reaches around to stroke Hamilton’s cock, and Hamilton, not expecting it, jerks and cries out, coming almost immediately and coating his hand in warmth.

It makes his ass tighten up impossibly, and Jefferson spasms, overwhelmed. He rolls his hips slowly and purrs, high-low high-low, as he rides it out, the most thorough orgasm he can remember ever having, eyes rolling back in his head as he drags the hand covered in Alex’s semen over the soft curve of his ass.

He pants as he withdraws, and Alex makes a mournful little noise at the emptiness but is otherwise silent as he disposes of the condom, comes around the bed to the front of him and sweeps the rest of the foil packets onto the floor. He tugs Alexander up the bed from where he’d slumped onto it when his legs gave out and, after some debate, slowly wraps his arms around him, hesitantly pulls him close to his chest. He’s practically dead weight against him. Jefferson skates his thumb back and forth on Hamilton’s side, his hand curled around his hip. His fingers dig in a little where Hamilton is soft, and Jefferson imagines all the dark bruises he could lay into the supple skin. All in due time.

Alexander stirs after a few moments of quiet, mumbling something about work on Monday and how he won’t be able to sit right. Thomas laughs against his shoulder and asks him if he thinks he’ll regret it. Hamilton straddles him again and kisses him in answer.

It’s barely noon and Thomas hasn’t taken a nap in years, but he falls into a sated sleep that lasts hours, and he hopes Hamilton won’t notice that he’s drooling into his hair.


End file.
